Vivien Kiernan
Crisp air invigorated my mind as I ambled down the leaf-strewn sidewalk into my yard. Nearing my house, I stilled.
A small brown box sat neatly on my doorstep.
I glanced around, apprehension tingling my spine.
Calm down, Diane. It’s probably just the supplies you ordered.
But it couldn’t be. The art store’s delivery wasn’t that fast. Besides, Michael—the cute mailman—had already been by today.
Seeing the box brought last night’s creepiness back to mind. My hands had still been chalky with clay as I’d reached my phone—after so many rings, I was sure I’d missed it.
If only.
“Hello?” I’d tried to sound cheerful despite my fatigue. Chronic illness makes it hard to function at the best of times, but a day full of sculpting and running errands left me in no fit state for a conversation.
“Hello?” I’d repeated, after nothing but silence.
An exhale.
Just recalling it brought back chills.
I’d held my own breath, listening. Waiting.
“Is anyone there?” I’d almost managed to keep my voice strong.
Another breath, deep and slow.
I’d ended the call, throwing down my phone as though it were a giant spider.
Now this.
I cautiously moved toward the step—and the box sitting boldly upon it. Leaning closer, I examined it. No label. In fact, nothing on it at all.
Ice gripped my neck. It hadn’t been sent to me—someone had brought it here. In person.
Be brave. It’s fine.
But as I picked it up, scenes from mystery novels and thriller movies flicked through my mind.
A woman on her own. Something unusual happens. She reassures herself that all is well. The tension eases, then—bang! Someone darts out from the shadows and grabs her, or a bomb goes off, or she thinks she’s safe inside… but the threat is in the house with her! And—
“Stop it!” Maybe scolding myself out loud would help. Unless, of course, the box concealed a voice-activated explosive device…
Hm. I should probably switch to watching rom-coms.
Sucking in a shaky breath, I clutched the box tighter, fumbling in my coat pocket for my keys with my other hand.
Once inside, I marched into the kitchen. Ginger circled my feet, greeting me with gentle meows. I flipped the light on and placed the box on the beat-up pine table. Crumbs of sculpting clay dotted the surface, and my latest cat sculpture sat to one side, its unfinished face unnerving as the one eye I’d carved in it so far stared right at the mysterious package.
I rubbed my fingers together, sensing something tacky on my hand. Glancing at my fingertips, I froze. Sticky moisture covered them.
Sticky… and red.
I examined the box again, forgetting to breathe, as I noticed a dark, damp corner at the bottom.
Stumbling back a few paces, my chest tightened. It couldn’t be…
Should I notify the police? Surely a prank call and a bleeding box were matters better suited to the boys in blue—not a chronically ill sculptor with an overly vivid imagination.
Don’t panic, Diane.
A verse my grandmother had often prayed over me came to mind. Do not fear, for I am with you… I will help you…
Drawing a deep breath and placing my tenuous trust in the truth of those words, I inched forward again.
I can do this.
My heart rattled like a tin can against the bars of a cage as I tugged open the top flaps.
No explosion so far…
Pulling the other tabs open, my whole body tensed as I looked inside.
Nestled on some shredded paper was a heart. Not a real one, thankfully. One modeled from clay. Also in the box—two paintbrushes, and a glass jar of red paint.
A broken jar.
Relief washed over me. Then I saw it—a small rectangle of paper tucked beside the jar. I retrieved it, careful not to get any more paint on my fingers.
The sender had scrawled a telephone number—and a message.
Maybe we could complete this together?
Did whoever sent this actually expect me to call a stranger—letting them know I’m home alone again, in the process—to do some kind of unbidden craft project with them?
I examined everything again. It’s meant to be sweet, right? Not threatening. So, why no name?
My phone buzzed in my pocket, making me jump. Fishing it out of my coat, I froze. The number on the screen, it looked… familiar.
I glanced at the note.
Same number.
I shouldn’t answer it. I really shouldn’t. But mousy as I was, I never could resist a mystery.
I tapped the screen, hoping I wouldn’t regret this. “Hello?” Any weird breathing and I’d call the cops for sure this time.
“Hey… Diane?” The male voice sounded gentle and shy. And familiar.
“Yeah… Is… Michael? Is that you?”
“Yeah,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I, uh… I left something for you outside your house. Then realized I forgot to include my name. I… I hope you don’t mind me calling.”
Michael the mailman—he left the box?
The box with a heart in it?
My own heart stuttered, though not from fear this time.
Michael’s about my age—and very handsome. More than that, he’s a true gentleman. We’ve chatted plenty over the past year or so—some mornings more than others. Truth be told, seeing him is the highlight of my day.
And not just because my social circle consists mainly of cats.
“Not at all,” I replied.
“Oh, good. I actually tried calling you last night, but I got so nervous I couldn’t think what to say. I thought the box might be a better idea, but…”
Completely astounded, I echoed his chuckle. I certainly hadn’t seen this craft project coming—but I sure couldn’t wait to work on it.
Michael. My mailman. Delivering a heart to me.
His heart.
Writing as Edwina Kiernan, she is also an award-winning author of Christian Historical Romance. When she’s not writing, she loves watching movies and playing games with her family, reading, designing, drinking copious amounts of a wide variety of teas, and encouraging friends and strangers alike. Vivien is represented by Tamela Hancock Murray of The Steve Laube Agency.
Connect with her on her website, Facebook, Twitter (X), Instagram, BookBub, or Goodreads.
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